Chapter 9
Jackson blew out the lamp so she wouldn’t knock it over and start a fire while he was gone.
Then he grabbed his boots and hurried in his stocking feet to the door, where he jammed his hat on his head and snatched his coat off the peg.
He paused on the porch long enough to pull on his boots then raced for the barn and saddled his fastest horse.
Dawn had barely broken, but Jackson didn’t care. He pushed his mount into a gallop and took off for town. “Come on, Scout,” he urged as the bay raced down the road through the cold inky mist.
Frosty leaves crunched under Scout’s hooves, and gulps of frigid air burned Jackson’s lungs as low-hanging branches swatted his face and stung his cheeks.
The horse slowed to a canter, and Jackson let him, even though it took every scrap of restraint he had not to urge him back to full run.
He needed to get to town fast, and he wouldn’t make it if he rode his horse too hard.
A growl simmered from somewhere in the bushes.
Scout shied and stumbled.
“Easy, boy,” Jackson said as the horse caught his footing. He reached for his sidearm, and his palm slapped an empty hip.
Shit. My gun. He’d been in such a rush he hadn’t grabbed it.
“Go,” he commanded, urging Scout on with a firm nudge of his heels. Their only option was to run away.
Jackson glanced over his shoulder after they’d gone a couple hundred yards. Nothing had given chase.
He sat back in the saddle and let Scout slow to a canter again.
Dawn gave way to twilight, and they made better time. Just as the sun came up, he reined Scout to a skidding stop in front of the doctor’s house.
Jackson had only encountered the town’s physician on a handful of occasions—once to patch him up when he’d sustained a wound too deep for Amanda to stitch, once when Noah developed a rash, and once when the doctor called on him to evaluate his horse after stepping in a gopher hole.
Hiram Babcock didn’t over imbibe, he kept a level head, and he seemed well trained.
On that basis, Jackson trusted the sexagenarian.
He just prayed the doctor hadn’t been called away to another emergency.
Jackson sprinted up the front steps of the brown brick Italianate and rapped on the door. “Dr. Babcock.” No one answered, so he rapped harder. “Dr. Babcock!”
“Coming,” a sleepy voice said from within, followed by some grumbled words Jackson couldn’t make out. The plump white-headed doctor opened the door, hair tousled and spectacles askew, still tying on his dressing gown. “What can I do for you, Mr. Maguire?”
“I’m sorry to call at such an hour, but my wife is ill. Very ill.”
“In what way?”
“She complained of a stomach ache that worsened over several days. She felt much improved yesterday, after I gave her a dose of Daffy’s Elixir, but this morning, she awoke with a fever so high she’s delirious.”
“Is she with child?”
“No. Not as far as she knows.”
Dr. Babcock’s brows drew together, and his eyes sharpened with instant alertness. “Hitch my horse to my buggy. I’ll dress and meet you in the yard.”
The doctor appeared just as Jackson was fastening the last buckle. He tossed his bag under the seat of the buggy and climbed in. “Your farm is the old Tipton place, is it not?”
“It is,” Jackson said, handing him the reins.
“You ride on ahead, then. I know the way.”
Thank Pete. A doctor’s buggy was designed to travel fast, but it couldn’t match the speed of an unencumbered horse.
Jackson swung into the saddle and took off for home.
The children were awake when he arrived, rubbing the sleep from their eyes and coming down the stairs.
“Where’s Mama?” Noah asked.
“She’s resting.”
Jackson poured two cups of milk and spread jam on two pieces of bread, then settled Noah and Jewel at the table, so he could go check on Amanda. “Dr. Babcock will be here soon,” he said to Noah. “When he arrives, let him in and send him upstairs.”
The curve of Noah’s mouth dipped into a slight frown. “Is Mama ill?”
“Her stomach is hurting again.”
“Oh,” he said, still looking troubled.
“The doctor will know what to do. But I need you to stay here and give him my message. Then you can take Jewel out back and play with the kittens.”
Noah’s eyes lit at the prospect. “All right, Papa. I will.”
Jewel gave him a jam-covered grin. “Play kittens!”
Jackson hurried up the stairs and said a silent prayer as he entered the bedroom. “Amanda,” he said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m back, and the doctor is on his way.”
She stirred but didn’t wake.
He touched the back of his hand to her forehead. It had cooled. That offered some reassurance, but now she looked as though drawing each breath was an effort. Fear still had its icy claws sunk deep in Jackson’s chest.
He stood when he heard Noah open the front door and met the doctor at the top of the stairs. “My wife was sleeping when I got here, so I didn’t wake her. The fever’s gone.”
Dr. Babcock carried his bag into the room and set it on the table by the bed. “Open the curtains,” he said as he lit the lamp. “I need more light.”
Jackson pushed them as wide as they would go then stood in the corner and entrusted Amanda to the care of another.
“Mrs. Maguire,” the doctor said. He got no response and patted her shoulder. “Mrs. Maguire. It’s Dr. Babcock. I’m going to examine you.”
Amanda’s eyes fluttered open. She mumbled the word doctor then appeared to drift back to sleep.
Babcock listened to her chest with a stethoscope. Then he set it aside and began looking Amanda over, pulling down her lower eyelids and her lip. “Has she injured herself or complained of bleeding?”
“No.”
“When was her last monthly flow?”
“Uh,” Jackson replied, searching his memory. “About two weeks ago.”
The doctor turned back the covers and pressed on Amanda’s abdomen, causing her to whimper in pain. “Has there been any vomiting?”
“No.”
He examined each of Amanda’s limbs all the way down to her fingers and toes, then rolled her to her side and pressed his hand to the bedding beneath her. “When was the last time she passed water?”
“I’m not sure.” He’d left in such a rush he’d relieved himself out by the barn. Jackson peered into the chamber pot. It was bone-dry. “Late yesterday afternoon, I think.”
“Has she had anything to drink?”
“Not since supper. Should I give her some water?”
“You can spoon small amounts into her mouth from time to time.” He blew out the lamp and returned his stethoscope to his bag. “I sent word to Celia before I left town and asked her to pay you a visit.”
“That’s much appreciated.” The laundress could look after the children and keep them occupied. “Do you know what’s wrong with my wife?”
“Her skin is pale, but I don’t see any sign of anemia, and a complication of pregnancy is highly unlikely.
Taking all her symptoms into account, I believe a purulence of some sort ruptured.
.. probably her appendix. I’ll give you some tincture of opium for her pain and leave instructions for dosing it. ”
“I’m grateful, but how do we make her well?”
“The common practice is to prescribe rest and wait it out.”
“That’s all?”
“You fought in the war. I don’t have to tell you that surgery brings dangers of its own.”
Jackson sighed and nodded in agreement.
“A doctor in London was cutting the organ out,” Babcock went on, the lines around his eyes softening some, “but he lost nearly as many patients as would have died without treatment. Another fella back east had better luck leaving the organ where it was and merely draining the pus, but–”
“Could you do that?”
“I’m afraid not. One can’t drain an organ that’s no longer intact.
” He gave Jackson a long, assessing look then gestured at the door, moving their conversation out into the hall.
“I’d perform surgery right here if I thought it would save your wife.
But the truth is, whether it’s her appendix or not, she’s beyond help. ”
Jackson’s stomach dropped—he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Her condition improved when I gave her the tonic. Isn’t there something we can do?”
Dr. Babcock shook his head. “When a purulence bursts, some patients get relief, but it’s only temporary.
And it’s an illusion. Once the pus is freed, it accelerates the disease.
Even if I cut your wife open and cleaned out all the offending matter, it wouldn’t save her. The sickness has spread too far.”
He placed a hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “Amanda is dying. The best thing you can do is sit with her and keep her comfortable.”
Jackson blinked back tears. “How long?” he asked, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice and failing miserably.
“She only has hours to live. A day at best.”
The doctor’s hand tightened on Jackson’s shoulder for a moment before he withdrew it and returned to the bedroom.
Jackson stood motionless in the dim hallway, hands hanging useless at his sides, while every muscle in his throat went rigid with the effort it took to keep from breaking down. He hadn’t known a man could feel this desolate and remain upright.
From inside the room came the clink of glass on wood—the bottle of mercy—and the scribble of pencil on paper.
Jackson drew shallow breaths, his throat raw with unshed tears. He focused on a crack in the wall, tracing its crooked path with his eyes, anything to dam the flood of emotion.
The floorboards beneath his boots creaked as the doctor emerged, bag in hand. “Celia should arrive within the hour. Is there anyone else you’d like me to notify...? A telegram to your family?”
Jackson shook his head. He’d unman himself if he unclenched his jaw enough to speak.
“I administered the first dose and placed the bottle on the nightstand,” the doctor said in a gentle tone. “She can have more in a few hours.” He walked away, his slow deliberate steps receding down the stairs.
Jackson remained rooted in the spot until the house was silent.